My Old Flames

The song starts, “My old flame, can’t even remember his name...” I can remember though. I remember because I always thought the flame would last. 

First there was Eddie Moorehead. He sat a few seats ahead of me in the second row of fifth grade. He may have turned around once or twice but all I remember is my feelings for Eddie were one-sided and that’s the way I wanted it. I was content to just sit and stare at him.

In junior high school David Lovejoy admired me openly but anyone that easy to get didn’t interest me much. I'd rather dream about Nelson Eddy, my movie idol. Still, I had a little fun stringing Little Lord Lovejoy along. A more serious candidate, his name was Al, gave me my first kiss. After that I didn’t like him.

In high school the assistant band director was a dark haired handsome fellow, three years older, named Harry Ericson. I was steady with Harry all four years. I used to spoon with him in his car at a favorite parking place with the car radio playing love songs, but we never got past the kind of kissing we’d seen in the movies. (You of younger generations may need to watch a few of the 40's movies to see what I mean.) I think, besides the eleven o’clock curfew Daddy imposed, there may have been some such threat as, “You go too far with my daughter and I’ll ...” Our last summer together Harry was drafted into the Army and I left home to live with my grandmother in Riverside, CA and attend the Community College.  

The older brother of a classmate in college saw my picture in the paper after I’d won a pin-up girl contest at a party for Battery C at Camp Haan. He had to meet me and he was a persistent fellow. His main pluses were good looks, a convertible car, a motorcycle, and that’s it. I won’t name his minuses but the main one was his pressure to go beyond movie kisses. I’d have none of it.  

Then along came Wally. Wally was Grandmother’s choice all along. She’d known him since he was a toddler living next door to her in Minneapolis. I should have known that his picture sitting on her mantle  meant something. Wally, when he finally took interest in me, was ready to get married and that was just fine with me. That “old flame” lasted forty years and is still alive even though he’s been gone twenty-seven years to this very day.

I’ve had one more old flame turned husband. I called him Robby because his geology students called him Dr. Robby and his first name of Forbes was used by his first wife. Robby and I had a good second marriage. His first had been over fifty years, a long love affair. Ours lasted nearly eight years and I can truthfully say we never quarreled and seldom disagreed. Ours was a sunset love.

I’ve heard of couples who got married in their nineties but that does not interest me now, even though I'm three years shy of ninety. What I’m wondering is this: Who of my old flames will be waiting for me on the other side? Will he still care about me or I about him? Of mine, I’d want most to find Wally, of course. He’s the father of my children and the love of my life. But I’m not sure I was all to him he’d have wanted. I was a good mother and wife, but probably never as witty or sophisticated or thrifty as he’d have liked. He liked my looks until he began seeing me age. First it was, “When you’re a few years older you’re going to be really beautiful.” Then it was, “Did you know you’re letting your head shake like Mom did?” He could not bear getting old himself, but having me get old too? I even had white hair and was called Grandma! Too much. He opted out at the age of sixty-six. 

I have been thinking a lot about love these days and I’ve come to the conclusion that love is so highly subjective it rarely satisfies 100%. To be honest, I don’t think Wally and I will have a second chance at this world’s kind of romance over there. Jesus said there is no marriage in heaven. Mary Baker Eddy has said that “There is moral freedom in Soul.” What that means to me is divine Love is what we’re all after. Once having tasted it we’ll never be satisfied with anything less and Love is too immense to lavish on only one other. I can’t elaborate on the subject, I only trust that divine Love will not be restrictive or base. It will surely be pure, inviolate, and something we find in this world closer to music than any other thing. Enough said.

The End of the Story

The world, according to the Mayan calendar, should have ended yesterday. I'm guessing it didn't because my world is still here and I appear to still be in it. Yet, I'm thinking, something ended yesterday. It was the day itself, December 21, 2012. By that token, "the end" takes place every midnight.

St. Paul wrote, "I die daily." Did he mean that our lives begin and end one day at a time?  Then what about the ending called death, the one others will see in a date
inscribed on our gravestones? The older I get the more I'm confronted by the thought of this end. Not that I'm afraid of it. I'd just hope it will be easy and not prolonged, the way any pregnant woman hopes giving birth will be. Funny, isn't it, that birth makes so little impression on us that we forget it as if it never happened? My friend and teacher, Dr. Merriman, used to say, "You'll never know when you die. Your birth and death are the experiences of others about you. They will not be a part of your experience." I wonder.

This morning I've been playing lazy. That's just one of the perks of living alone. If no one shows up unexpectedly, no one needs to know you didn't get out of your pajamas, robe and slippers until nearly noon. No one needs to know you spent the morning watching TV. The History Channel had a long drawn-out account of what would happen if humans would die out and leave the earth. How long would it take for buildings, bridges, roads, etc. to decay and crumble? If animals remained how would they cope? I was waiting for the end of the story, where Earth would return to its native state. I missed that part. Must have dozed off, because I didn't see the end.

Every story should have an end. We humans love stories, but they need to end. When they do, they give us something to think about before going to sleep. As for our own endings, I'm wondering why they come upon us so stealthily. Slow or fast, they don't tell us why. Why should those little school children in Connecticut have met their end so early in life at the hands of a maniac with an automatic weapon? I'd hope that they will not remember that event when they wake up to a new world. No one likes the idea of dying so it seems fitting that we might not remember it, just as we don't remember being born.

We're coming up to the end of a year. I like this time. It sets me to thinking how I can make my story better. I used to love writing resolutions but now, if I do that, I quickly erase them or toss them aside because I don't want to feel like a puppet or a servant to even self-drawn orders. I learn as I go now. Change my ways as I feel like it. Obey my inner voice and play life by ear. If I set up goals I might miss something. If others want to excel in the improvement of their talents to the point of sacrifice then I'd say more power to them. Guess I'm content to be a B student. Making my moments count in harmless little joys of appreciation, working only when I feel like it, and filling up on contentment is good enough for me.

Now I'm beginning to think this blog should come to an end. As for the end of my life, I'd like to be able to come back and tell you how it was. But I'm afraid I wouldn't remember.

When I Say Raspberries

I pity the children who grow up never knowing the rapture of finding themselves in a raspberry patch hidden in tall bushes of lush green branches laden with those bright red berries that slip away so easily  into fingers and then into the mouth. This experience in childhood is something rare and beautiful to carry into later life.

That’s why I can stand before rows of square clear plastic containers of raspberries in a market and feel an almost sacred sense of awe that those perfect creations were so recently enjoying the sun and shade of the berry patch. What must it be like to be a raspberry clinging to its mother branches? Can the berry know the reason for its joy and the supreme sacrifice of its future? Why does it let go so easily?

In my own country childhood I picked raspberries. The task was so much easier than picking strawberries where I had to bend down low. In the raspberry patch I could stand up and feel both tall and dwarfed by the bushes. Two of my granddaughters, Erin and Katie, know the feeling. They visited my cousins in Minnesota with me one summer when the raspberries were in season. To this day the mention of Verna and Glen bring delighted smiles to their faces. “Oh, I remember them! They were the ones with a raspberry patch in their back yard!”

It is said that as we grow older (and riper?) we can slip into childhood again. I can. Halls of memories come alive like those bright berries on the bushes. I want to speak of them but I know I can never do them justice or translate their feelings to anyone else. At this moment I am sitting up in bed writing on the tray where the bowl of cereal and raspberries was. Words now take the place of breakfast berries who have gone into the “whale’s belly” like Jonah. 

In the order of life I feel like a raspberry, nearly, but not quite, ready for the picking. Life is each day becoming sweeter and richer in color and taste. It’s losing the sharp acidity of its greener days when it knew more certainty, and opinion and when harsh criticism sometimes held sway. 

Getting older, for me, means reflection on the goodness of life. Sorrows only serve to turn us to higher, more permanent joys. I sense it is the calendar I can blame for my feeling like a ripe raspberry this morning. Christmas carols play on my bedroom radio and gather in the years past. At the same time they reach into the unseen future which I can only guess about. The shining light in the eyes of my great grand-babies gives me Christmas joy. Such promise there! They’ll have their Christmases throughout many years too, their own bright memories. My own future, and even theirs in time, means giving up and letting go of Earth's cradle when the time is ripe. Giving up to what? A world more bright? Therein lies the wonder. 

If I could, this Christmas, I’d be so glad to give every one of my great grandies a raspberry patch experience! 

After Grandma, What Then?

My dad's mother, Grandma Hattie Pulford Hahn, was a country woman but well educated for her day. That is, she had long passages of the Bible memorized, including the whole Sermon on the Mount. She was my Sunday School teacher in the town's Methodist church and before marriage she'd been a one-room country school teacher. She had thirteen grandchildren but I felt I was a favorite of hers. Perhaps each of us thought the same. I have tons of memories about her and I love her to this day. Her second son, Reuben Jordan Hahn, was my father.

Grandmother Maude Turner Darling was my city grandma. She had a business of her own long before I came along. It was a milliner's shop. By the time I knew this grandmother well she'd had four beautiful children all grown up, but only my two younger brothers and me for grandchildren. We were the offspring of her youngest, my mother, Faith Caroline Darling Hahn.

After graduation from high school I took my first train ride to Riverside, California from Minneapolis, Minnesota. There I was to live with Grandmother Darling and attend the Riverside Junior College located just a short walk from her small adobe cottage. By then both my mother and my country grandma had passed on. Daddy got married to the mother of a schoolmate of mine who had lost his father and the new stepmother was a good fit to take over where I'd left off. This phase of my life presented a comfortable interlude of nearly two years between high school and marriage.

Living with Grandmother Darling gave me a path away from country boyfriends and the likely role of a Minnesota wife and mother. Grandmother bought me a piano and paid for private piano lessons with an excellent teacher. She watched me do her proud with good grades in college where the professors called me "Miss Hahn." I knew the moral boundaries that were expected of me and was glad to obey them, even though these were hinted more than spoken. A "nice girl" just guarded her reputation and self respect. Grandmother Darling paved the way to my marriage to a young Marine captain who was a fighter pilot as well as the product of a family who had lived next door to her in Minneapolis. At nineteen I was married to Wallace Ginder Wethe in the Flyers' Chapel at The Mission Inn in Riverside, California. It was a small and beautiful ceremony.

So, there it is in a nutshell. What prompted this blog? Only this: Grandmothers of the world should be shining examples to their grandchildren. They can't be perfect, but they can show unconditional love and hope in ways that can't offend. No one wants to be exactly like grandma, but good grandmas show us how to be the best of ourselves. Here are a few grandmother rules: Don't preach; just be. Don't criticize; just wait for the seed to grow. Crudely expressed advice I once heard was not too wrong: "A good grandmother keeps her purse open and her mouth shut."I would add, be a grandmother that believes God is always there for His children whether they know it or not. Prayers by grandmothers work.

If you have a loving grandmother count yourself blessed. If you don't, then I pity you, but you can do this: Pretend you have an ideal grandmother. Maybe you can improve on the one or ones you have by being an ideal grandchild. Much of our world is make-believe anyway, so make believe the best of Grandma and Grandpa too. Make believe the best of your parents and even everyone, but most of all make the best of yourself, not in make-believe but for real! A good Grandmother would show you how.

A Vacation to Remember

I like short vacations. They serve just as well as long ones to give you a new perspective on life. Lately I've become such a homebody I rarely want to go on any kind of vacation at all. A drive through the spaces we find set aside as greenbelts here in Southern California gives me the sense of adventure I used to get on those long treks when my husband's new Marine Corps assignments took us on moves across the whole country.

Idyllwild, California. Just got home from there with my daughter, Robin. She went to stay at a friend's cabin home and take care of her two dogs while the friend was on a vacation of her own. I was invited to come along. Didn't really want to leave but dreaded the thought of my dear daughter scaling the mountain's curvy roads alone and, after all, she'd accompanied me on our latest trip to Escondido where I used up some of my remaining time share points. So, I went. I'm so glad I did!

There must be something about the mountain air that especially invigorates and refreshes one. When we got there Robin opened the car windows and said, "Smell this air, Mom!" Yes, it did smell wonderful. And the charming cabin where we stayed, the small town feel to the place that belied the fact that it is also a tourist destination, - all this crept into our few days like an elixir of life.

Now I'm grateful to be home again but not for the same old, same old, home. My home is what I might call strangely familiar. That is, it's like an old me with distinct possibilities for change to a better me.

I won't bore my readers with an account of all we did except to say we took our work along. Robin took her paints and canvas and I took my clay and sculpting tools. We both accomplished some satisfying work. And we took out time to browse around the town, find a quaint old-town coffee shop, a few neat gift shops, one nostalgic collectors' thrift store and a delightfully upscale dinner place for our last night. Robin took lots of pictures and talked to the locals. (You can probably find the pics, if you wish, on her Facebook page under Robin Wethe Altman or contact me at jwrobertson@cox.net and I'll send them to you.)

On the way home we stopped at the Riverside National Cemetery where Wally G's ashes lie beneath a stone along with thousands of other veterans. It was still Veterans' Day (the 11th was on Sunday) so we had missed a celebration, but there were still American flags placed on each gravesite and it was a sight to behold on a sunny fall day! When, after a brief search among the names, we found Wally G's name, we both broke out in tears. So simple. So moving. Wally was not one for funerals but he did say once that he wanted to be buried there, in that cemetery dedicated to veterans, near the town of Riverside where we were married in the Flyers' Chapel at The Mission Inn. He wanted only that tiny spot to declare that there was once a man named Wallace G. Wethe, Lt.Col. USMC who lived, fought and died for his family, his faith and his nation. In time that stone will be replaced with one that is inscribed with both his name and mine. "...and his wife, Joyce." No need for my other surnames. It is enough to be remembered as a Wethe, Wally G's wife of forty years. I could ask no higher honor.

On the last lap home we stopped for lunch at a huge mall on a crossroads in the desert and ate Chinese food in the car under the shade of a tree. The food was disappointing but the fortune cookie made up for that. It said, "Wishing you happiness."

When a Friend Hits You

The subject of pacifism comes up often in the human narrative though maybe not so often as the instinct to fight back. These come up at every stage of growth and need to be addressed even daily in small and large ways from bitter words to harmful actions.

I often think of a friend of ours, a man who was married but had no children of his own and loved children. He became a favorite pal of the little ones in his neighborhood. One day one of the little boys appeared on his doorstep in tears. "What's the matter, Georgie?" my friend asked. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve Georgie said between sobs, "My friend hit me!"

How often do we all run up against this in our lives? It's bad enough to have an adversary strike us, but when a friend does? This adds a special gall to the cup. We feel betrayed and hurt. We expect our friends to be friends without exception. As for enemies, well, an occasional slap in the face or unkind remark is to be expected. In either case, what shall we do, take it on the chin and stand tall or give out with a sock in the eye?

In my personal life I try to be the stand tall type but when it comes to war I tend to lean toward meeting warlike actions with a strong warring response. In my long lifetime I've seen the results of both pacifism and war and find there's no easy answer. Even Jesus predicted that there will be wars. I don't recall he said, "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature, heal the sick, raise the dead, and refuse to go to war at any cost."

My first husband was a Marine fighter pilot and served in two wars over a 20+ year career. I know he had unspoken regrets over dropping bombs or shooting down enemy planes but he regarded his mission as honorable in defending our nation from enemies who would inflict pain and persecution on us in order to serve their evil regimes.

On the personal level I seldom have a warlike reason to act against anyone. I try to always see the other's point if it is contrary to my own but recently I found myself responding to an unkind remark by one who has been a lifetime friend with the "silent treatment." You know how that goes. You simply cut off relationship with the offender by cutting off all dialogue. I've seen others do it and scorned the behavior as a form of hatred that is cruel and unseemly and self-defeating.

This person is the kind that never engages in healthy discussion on a controversial subject but states her view and ends further dialogue with the change of subject. So, I didn't want to give a straightforward response to her comment. Still, the longer I waited to respond or communicate with this one in any way the worse I felt about it. It's hard to carry a grudge, no matter how justified. To have someone in your life who has been a good friend, in spite of her sometimes odd attitudes, and suddenly cut that one out of mind and heart takes conscious effort. Even after overlooking many such remarks should I finally take a stand and end the relationship with silence or anger? What would that do to me? Am I ready to suffer the toll on my own psyche?

My daughter, Robin, is a pacifist. She wants to love the whole world and never, never go to war over anything. I admire her conviction that "There must be better ways than war, Mom!" And I agree, but still I wonder.

As for my friend, I am overlooking the remark as something she said to announce her point but didn't mean to hurt me. After all, she is my friend. When the little neighborhood boy stood on the doorstep of my other friend in tears I know he was brought in, given a glass of milk and a cookie and some kindly advice to remember the "friend" part of his relationship. For further encounter with others we too should remember that when some snag threatens to sever our friendship. It takes a load off our minds to forgive, even when forgiveness is not sought. That should go for our enemies too, I suppose.  But that's another story altogether!

Curiosity & Discovery at any Age

Today I'll be seeing the great grandie who lives nearest me. He is nine months old and his name is Jack Carlo Murcia. When I write about him I want you to know I am not slighting my other great grandies, Sammantha, Max, Kingston, and Amy. I love them all dearly but baby Jack is the one I get to observe most frequently because he lives the nearest.

As I've mentioned before, to watch a baby at play you can plainly see that life is a matter of curiosity and discovery for babies. It should be for us all up until the day we become curious enough to have the daring to reach out to the "hereafter."

Now, to anyone who doesn't believe in a hereafter or a here-to-fore, I say, That's OK. I won't try to change your mind because I can't furnish proof of either. Still, since I have no proof either that there isn't life before birth and after death, I simply choose to believe in both. Someone once pointed out to me that in order to see the here-to-fore and the hereafter you only need to climb to a higher point of view. It's like seeing the bend in a river from a precipice above rather than from the shore below. Sounds reasonable to me. No one can say there's not a whole lot more to life than any of us have yet discovered. And that makes me highly interested in the here and now from an ever ascending standpoint.

Baby Jack and Baby Amy (who I saw on Skype the other day) are both curious about the colorful toys their parents have provided them. Color, feel, taste, smells and sounds fill their waking hours. As they grow they also learn to recognize love. Later they'll learn the do's and don'ts of life through trial and error and/or the guidance of their parents and teachers. Along the way they'll get educated in social and civic matters. They'll find inner talents in literature, music, art, science, etc. Maybe they will entertain curiosity that reaches beyond the five senses. This is good up to a point so long as it doesn't become adherence to baseless conjecture and superstition.

Now, I'm wondering if all this is so transparent that it's too boring to go on my blog site. Where is it going? I don't know. I just find it fun to write. Words sometimes lead me to ideas I've not thought of before. Just as my fingers form clay into faces of people I've never known. What comes out on paper and in clay is often something unique and worthy.

So, what did I get out of this blog? Only the suggestion that I too, at the near age of 87, am a baby yet, exploring a territory beyond my present comprehension. To have the curiosity to seek a more compassionate point of view (even in the midst of a political campaign!) is to gain peace and understanding. To suffer the pains of what others may appear to inflict on me without striking back?  That is a step toward a better world, but not if it means letting oneself be victimized. Putting up with wrongs when we can help to set things straight is no virtue, but resisting requires wisdom and moral stature.

Some say that age is infancy. I say that if that's so, then great! I'm ready to explore my world with the curiosity of a baby who's learning to crawl and the discovery of a sage who has learned to climb.